


Leviathan

by fresne



Category: A Dangerous Man Lawrence After Arabia
Genre: Cat1, Character of Color, M/M, Muslim Character, Stream of Consciousness, Yuletide, challenge:New Year Resolutions, recipient:Autiotalo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-23
Updated: 2005-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winston calls him a prehistoric monster carried by a tidal wave from ocean's depths.</p><p>Strangely stranded when the waters fell. Out of harmony with the normal. Flying only with the hurricane. At refuge in the whirlwind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leviathan

**Author's Note:**

> The following inspiration for this work and inspiration for my dialogue, where I am not directly quoting, because apt quotes are cool:  
> Lawrence by his Friends  
> George Bernard Shaw, Private Meek.  
> A Shropshire Lad XIX: The time you won your town the race  
> A Prince of our Disorder  
> The Mint  
> The Seven Pillars of Wisdom  
> Prince Faisal, interview about Lawrence  
> TE Lawrence correspondence  
> G.B. Shaw talking about Lawrence.  
> Lowell Thomas

Part I: Prehistory

Winston calls him a prehistoric monster carried by a tidal wave from ocean's depths.  
Strangely stranded when the waters fell. Out of harmony with the normal. Flying only with the hurricane. At refuge in the whirlwind.

Sand in his eyes. Sitting. Staring. Blinking lashes. Long and curved and dead boys, long since hollowed, that once splashed brown naked lithe in the ancient river flow away.

Stranded.

Sand.

Liquid brown eyes consumed by the golden grains. Ozymandius' foot and they all fall down. Smart lads, to slip betimes away from fields where glory does not stay and early though the laurel grows, it withers quicker than the rose.

Rose. Skin pricked welling blossom. Lash unruly backs to scour time away.

George calls him a mouse. A roaring, managing Private Meek. Private. Secretive. Concealed. Undisclosed.

Disclose. Six times, including the one with the blow torch. Truth being fiction. Conceal. One time, weeping. No one. Circassian no body. Drift away from Der'a like an empty paper sack on the wind.

Clasp, grab, hold Boanerges between thighs and ride down the open road. The seventh son of mechanical thunder to bear that name. Thunder. Wind. Fly. Dissolve into a dew. Tumbling end over end. Living until he dies.

The old Tiger calls him a dangerous man. A regular paladin prince of our disorder.

Be a little cog in a giant machine. A coin newly minted. Clean. New. Little. Microscopic. Nothing. Nobody. No body.

Rough-house naked with the other soldier boys. Boys. Touch. Rough. Limn failures into skin and don't touch me. Touch me. He doesn't like to be touched. Like. Touch.

Take a name. Whip it off. Inside out and outside in. Fresh new name for a fresh new day.

The desert is the sea and the sea is all down. Below.

Faisal would call him, but he is Persia far away.

"I felt at first glance that this was the man I had come to Arabia to seek."

"He was a genius of course, but not for this age."  
"For a past age?"  
"On the contrary, for the future. A hundred years hence, perhaps two hundred hence, he might be understood, but not today."

Part II - Song of Songs 3:1

There once was a boy. He had brothers like flocking goats on the trails of Gilead. He had a mother, her lips like a thread of scarlet. He had a father, his neck like the tower of David. And names. Lots of names. He rode his bicycle and took pictures of castles and was a kind of knight, Percival, pure and parfait. He walked in the Holy Land and took pictures of castles and was a kind of pilgrim, Sagramous the desirous, mild and meek. An artist of sorts. A wanderer after sensations.

Lying broken on the desert hillside. Blood in the dirt. Eyes swollen shut. Left for who cares.

There once was a boy and he was a plain sturdy flit of a boy with Araby perfume dreams. Gem hued carpets, weave pushing into bare backs. Boys will be boys and lie on carpets and roll and wrestle and play. A gleaming mosaic floor reflecting his shining body against red-stuccoed walls. Inhale Orient in lung loads and glut appetite with silks and dyed fantasies.

Dust in the digs and sweat. Drips and dribs running down tanned young backs where fingers would go. Down. Trails of texture and hands. A marvelous, unreal, pictured pageant of a life in the delicious free intimacy of the men of Carchemish.

Boys have friends and this boy had a friend. Darkness on the deep. Brought that friend home to play hide and seek and find in the hedgerows. In hidden spaces from constant eyes. Attics beckon with their dusty. Coat closets wait. Hedge nests call from deserted country lanes.

Golden light for a golden Oxfordshire lad and his water boy. Dahoum. The darkness that was on the face of the waters before creation. Dark earth eyes. Waiting earth with soft hands and blind worms that grow fat on substance.

Boys have adventures. Geometry and strategy and trains and dynamite. Might. What does your enemy need. Want. Desire.

Take it away.

Men there are in plenty. Men with limpid eyes over sun hidden faces. Friends holding hands as men will. Send us an Aurens that we might blow up trains. And it's grand and it's gritty. And men being manly and more splendid than a tulip garden. Moonlit camel rides across empty. Roaring dust speed in a Rolls Royce tender, the blue mist of Sharon. Drive to hit and run and hide and jolly good adventure. Jolly.

"I wrought for him freedom to light his sad eyes, but he died waiting for me. So, I threw my gift away and now not anywhere will I find rest and peace."

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world, the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable men."

Part III - The Wide World

Ned opens the door to his narrow garret of a Paris closet. With so many Leviathans crawling the glittering halls looking for their piece of the bled dry and bitter cake, there's hardly room for a lowly Colonel. Even one so colorfully dressed.

Ned closes the door to the world and shoulders slump with all the day weary of fighting the old tiger, Clemenceau. Pulls off his white headcloth, so ridiculous in the dim light of the north, and drops it to the floor. Holds large long hands to the sides of his large long head to hold his brains in.

Takes a breath. Takes two. Drops hands and begins the process of getting ready for sleep. President Wilson's wife goes walking in the mornings. President Wilson's wife has seen Lowell's film three times. Chance meetings may make for...tomorrow.

That's the world outside. This world is two steps wide and three steps long. Holding only a clean narrow bed that would make a Spartan slap thighs and dance for joy.

Ned takes off his ridiculous Turkish knife, covered in gold and stones and memory. A water child's gift of gaudy and Damascus steel. Ned pulls that steel from its bed. Stares at shifting dark patterns in metal by the light of a bare naked bulb. This world's harsh bright sun.

Sits on the edge of his crisp tidy bed, considers a moment and pulls up his robes on bare legs.

Ned's heart beats faster. Boom. Boom. Boom. He can hear it in his head. He slides the dark watery blade across the pale, pale skin. Ned watches the keen edge pull red pain out. Breathes in. Breathes out.

Inspects other healing cuts. The scabs are coming along quite nicely. Quite cheerio and pip, pip and bully. Licks the red pearls from the blade and tastes iron and salt and bitter. Contemplates where next to let the pressure out.

Doesn't even notice, how could Ned not notice, the door open and close. Now the narrow voracious world holds two.

A dark hand takes the knife from pale. Ned looks up to hawk eyes and nose and neat dark beard. Arab eyes are not smiling.

Faisal puts the knife back in its bed of wood and stone. Puts it on the hard wooden floor on the other side of the world. Kneels on the smooth, worn floor in front of Ned.

_People aren't friends till they have said all they can say and are able to sit together at work or rest an hour long without speaking._

Faisal takes Ned's right hand in both of his. Runs light long fingers over knuckles. Traces white scars. Delicate touches on the soft flesh between fingers. The pads of Faisal's finger tips are calloused. They should scratch as they run down vein rivers and over palm valleys into the soft tender skin of wrist. But they do not. Faisal is gentle. So, gentle.

Gentle.

Ned does not want gentle.

He wants the knife edge of the whirlwind. He stands up and runs two steps to the other end of the world. Faisal follows him. Runs long clever hands down trembling shoulders. Down Ned's shivering back, while Ned stares at the dull white wall.

Nimble hands reach around Ned to untie his belt, to unwind that long strand of golden tasseled rope that goes round and round. Big tassels mean that you are looking for a wife. Or that you like to wear big golden tassels on your white, white raw silk robe.

Rustling. Faisal puts the belt-rope over one shoulder and bends, holds that raw silk hem in both hands and skins the robe from Ned's thin small body. The inside is out. The outside in. Pale. Revealed. Almost naked under the naked bulb sun. Rivers of white lines down a white back. Cunning dark fingers run down silent speaking scars.

Faisal pushes, pulls Ned to face the world. To face him. Cerulean eyes to eagle gaze. Faisal slowly, so slowly measures the belt, the rope, in half. Takes Ned's hands, his large long hands and slowly slides the silken cord over Ned's pale narrow wrists. The skin blushing at the silken slither. Slowly, slowly wraps the rope over and under and knot.

Yes.

Slow cruel hands push Ned to his knees on the smooth, hard, wood floor.

It is cold.

Ned's heart beats. Boom. Boom. Boom. Rolling across the world. Faisal passes the golden silken rope between Ned's legs, over Ned's bare shoulders, back round and round Ned's wrists. If Ned moves his hands just a little, up or down, the rope pulls and slides and moves over his white cotton small clothes. Over crushed and compressed and restricted and hidden hard stirring.

Ned looks up at Faisal. Ned waits. Unmoving. And waits. Minutes stretch. Nerves, delicious hungry nerves taunt. That faint firm pressure of criss crossing ropes and tassels with their little knots that press.

Faisal leisurely unfastens buttons on his embroidered vest. Silver buttons. Golden thread on black brocade. He drops it to the floor. It lays half on half off of Ned's white silk headcloth.

Ned waits. He wants to move his hands. Needs the sliding clever cunning knots. Not yet.

Faisal pulls his black raw silk robe over his head. It billows and flutters and black night falls to the floor. Oceans of white and black silk pillowing the world's hard, cold, wooden floor. And Ned, kneeling on the last wooden continent, waits.

Faisal is naked. No. Nude. Shining and polished with olive oil and sea salt and one step too far away. Ned wants to lean forward. To take flesh like the cedar of Lebanon in his mouth and taste salt. He needs to move his hands and grab oak thighs. Run his tongue along the seventh pillar of wisdom and taste, sweet white pearls.

He does not move. He waits.

Faisal steps out from under white and black silk waves and onto the wooden shore. Faisal smiles.

Ned leans forward all the better to explore. He quickly moves bound hands up and down, running long, large, calloused, rough, fingers over Faisal's legs. The ropes slide and trace hard knots over and under. Over and under. As calloused ridges on finger tips leave faint white scratches on the gleaming dark skin. Skin that stretches and stretches. Goosebumps set black hairs to stand at attention. At attention.

Ned spiders fingers across Faisal's straining at attention and then quickly up and down the other leg. Over a rider's hard thigh, down muscular calves, like twin gazelles, like the tower of babelling. Up and down and over the middle and up and down and Faisal's hands fly to rest and grip at Ned's shoulders. The rope slips and burns over and under between those gripping fingers and Ned's tongue comes out to play.

That quick translating lingual tongue sliding over and under and around. Small darting lapping licks. Long fast hard strokes

The floor boards creak and ropes whisper and the world echoes with the boom, boom, boom of pounding hearts. Fast. Hard. Lick. Stroke. With just a touch of teeth, smooth and flat and round and hard as pearls on hard, soft, tender, fragile skin.

Faisal standing and Ned kneeling, breathing in unison. Fast. Short. Quick. Fingers clench on bare shoulders red with rope. Faisal fountain lets go into warm wet ravenous suckling of sweet and salt.

They stand still for a moment in silent tableau. The king and his bounded knight, kneeling supplicant. Abeyant. Waiting.

Faisal grabs the ropes and pulls up and back. And Ned crushed and compressed and restricted and hidden shouts pain out and away and sticky.

Faisal kneels down. Unties the ropes. Over and under and free. Rubs his black silk robe over Ned's body. Wipes away the sweat and tears and cum and blood into its soft sea foam surface. Hearts and breath ease to their normal slow plodden way.

_People aren't friends till they have said all they can say and are able to sit together at work or rest an hour long without speaking._

Faisal pulls the black salted silk over hair and eyes and nude. Picks up his embroidered vest with the silver buttons and the gold thread. Pauses. Picks up Ned's gaudy watery Turkish knife. Puts one hand, his right, upon Ned's head. Over disordered corn silk hair. Gently pulls it down one long cheek in last caress. And then padding quietly, one, two, three, door, Faisal leaves the world.

Ned slowly, carefully, pushes himself to his feet. Goes to the narrow bed. Slides between the cool, clean, cotton sheets.

He needs to get up early. President Wilson's wife goes walking in the mornings. President Wilson's wife has seen Lowell's movie three times. Chance meetings may make for a new minted tomorrow.

He closes his eyes to ivory dreams of Leviathans dragged by storms from ocean's depths. Strangely stranded when the salt tides rush out. Has horn dream of flying in thunder and lightening and wind and tumbling into the dark.

Fin

\----------------

Lawrence's dedication to the Seven Pillar's of Wisdom

"I wrought for him freedom to light his sad eyes, but he died waiting for me. So, I threw my gift away and now not anywhere will I find rest and peace."

"I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands  
And wrote my will across the sky in stars  
To earn you freedom, the seven pillared worthy house  
That you eyes might be shining for me when we came.

Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near  
And saw you waiting  
When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy, he outran me  
And took you apart into his quietness

Love, the way-weary groped to your body on brief way  
Ours for the moment  
Before earth's soft hand exposed your shape and the blind  
Worms grew fat on your substance.

Men prayed me that I set our work, the inviolate house  
As a memory of power  
But fit monument, I shattered it, unfinished: and new  
The little things creep out to patch themselves hovels  
In the marred shadow of your gift"  


**Author's Note:**

>   
> \------  
> Footnotes
> 
> Winston refers to Winston Churchill. His description of Lawrence is from his essay in _Lawrence by his Friends_.
> 
> George refers to George Bernard Shaw who based a character in one of his plays on Lawrence, Private Meek.
> 
> The smart lads bit is from Housman's _A Shropshire Lad XIX: The time you won your town the race_
> 
> Boanerges was the name of Lawrence's motorcycle (sorry), named after the sons of thunder in the Bible. He died riding his seventh motorcycle of that name.
> 
> _A Prince of our Disorder_ is a fairly comprehensive bio on Lawrence.
> 
> Following his experiences entering into the RAF, Lawrence (aka Airman Ross), wrote _The Mint_ about the process of being recreated.
> 
> "I felt..." from the Seven Pillars, Lawrence on meeting Faisal.
> 
> "He was a genius..." Faisal describing Lawrence in an interview.
> 
> _The Seven Pillars of Wisdom_ is dedicated to S.A., or Salim Ahmed. SA.'s nickname was Dahoum, which is a form of tehoum, which means the darkness that was on the face of the waters before creation. S.A. was the water-boy from the dig at Carchemish, where Lawrence worked as an archaeologist before the war. In 1913, S.A., then aged 16 visited Lawrence's home in England. Let's just say that Lawrence had a nude statue of S.A. on his roof in Carchemish and leave it at that. S.A. died of typhus shortly before the end of WWI.
> 
> The shining body reflecting in tiles bit is a quote from a letter by Lawrence.
> 
> Lawrence's Rolls Royce Tender in the Arab campaign was named Blue Mist.
> 
> "I wrought for him..." is from a flyleaf statement that Lawrence wrote about S.A.
> 
> "The reasonable man..." G.B. Shaw talking about Lawrence.
> 
> Lowell Thomas did a fairly well known film and lecture series about Lawrence.
> 
> "People aren't friends..." is from a letter written by Lawrence.Comments from yuletide:  
> If after reading my fiction here, you would like to read more about me and my writing check out my profile.


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